The Winter Companion (Parish Orphans of Devon #4) - Mimi Matthews Page 0,99
of the exact phrasing.
“It was right after you kissed me,” she’d said. “I can’t have mistaken it.”
“You’ve mistaken a great many things, madam. A kiss? A promise of marriage?” His tone had dripped with disdain. “We were speaking of romantic poetry, not of reality. Certainly not of any romance between the two of us. Really, Father. This is too absurd.”
“Romantic poetry!” the squire had scoffed.
“Miss Hartwright has a love of poetry,” Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde had said, “and is rather prone to painting her own life in such terms. I regret I encouraged the habit.”
Clara hated to recall it.
“It made me doubt my own judgment. I began to accept that I’d embellished my encounters with Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde beyond all recognition. It was the only rational explanation. And so I believed it.” She paused. “Until today.”
Slowly, she related it all to Neville. Her meeting with Simon at the coffeehouse. What he’d said about his altercation with Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde, and what Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde had admitted to.
In light of Simon’s revelations, she now understood that there had been no reason to doubt herself. She might have been foolish—a romantically minded young girl caught up in all the attention—but she hadn’t been imagining things all those years ago. The flirtatious words. The teasing and innuendo. Encroaching familiarities that had never seemed wholly appropriate.
He hadn’t valued or respected her. To him, she was just a poor country miss. A young lady, to be sure, but one with no protection. Had his intentions been honorable, he’d have told her straight out that he found her beautiful. That she was intelligent. Worthwhile.
But Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde had done none of those things. He’d overwhelmed her young heart with poetry and flirtation. He’d had her dancing on a string, and had been in the process of reeling her in when Clara had blurted out the good news to her mother.
What she’d believed to be good news.
Had Mama not intervened, Clara knew now that she’d have ended up losing more than her reputation. More than her pride. She’d have lost her virtue.
Neville listened in silence, his expression growing stonier by the second. When she finished, he had only one question: “Where is he now?”
“Probably gone back to Magdalene. Or else he’s returned to the hunting lodge with Mr. Trent.”
“Not Simon,” Neville said. “The other one.”
Clara blinked. “Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde?”
“Is he still in Cambridge?”
“Not that I’m aware. Simon says he’s gone back to Hertfordshire. Why do you ask?”
“Because I m-mean to throttle him.”
Her mouth fell open. “You?”
He looked mildly offended. “Do you think I couldn’t?”
“I daresay you could, and with one hand tied behind your back, besides. But I’d really rather you didn’t.”
“Do you still…?”
Care for him?
The very idea made her vaguely ill.
“No. Goodness, no.” Her brows knit. “I don’t know that I ever really did.”
“Then why—”
“Because he’s hired a solicitor and has already forced my brother to pay twenty guineas in damages for the thrashing he gave him.”
“I have a solicitor, too. A better one.”
“Mr. Finchley wouldn’t thank you for making him travel all the way to Cambridge to defend you on an assault charge. Not at this time of year.” She set a hand on the front of his waistcoat. “But I am grateful for the sentiment. Truly. It means more to me that you can possibly know.”
He covered her hand with his, holding it flat against his chest. She could feel his heart beating, strong and sure, beneath her palm. “What will you do?”
“About Mr. Bryce-Chetwynde? Nothing. There’s nothing that can be done. It’s all in the past.” She exhaled an unsteady breath. “I only regret that my studies must come to nothing. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself now. I’ve had no other dream these four years except to be Simon’s secretary.”
“Did he never mean it?”
“I think he must have in the beginning. He made such an effort to send me everything he was learning.